


the world is low (but I can touch the sky)

by Bookish_Moose



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, High Sex, Stoned Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 08:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3441116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookish_Moose/pseuds/Bookish_Moose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blackwall and Cadash get high and do the dirty.  Total PWP with hazy sex and run-on sentences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the world is low (but I can touch the sky)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HardingHightown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardingHightown/gifts).



Smoke hangs heavy in the air, dense and heady and herbal. 

A fire burns in the grate, candles in the sconces.  The room is hot, too hot, and she brushes sweat from her brow as she takes the pipe from him.  Bringing it to her lips, she draws a breath, long and deep, and lets the sharp burn settle into her lungs. 

If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine she is back in the shitty rooms she kept that summer in Kirkwall, the ones over the fishmonger’s in the Docks that always smelled but had that perfect view of sunset over the Waking Sea.  The smoke is the same, blood lotus with the slightest hint of embrium, and the oppressing heat.  Lotus to smoke meant a payday had come, but also fresh blood on her hands and she opens her eyes, letting the memories go with the smoke she exhales. 

Now lotus is just lotus.

She turns the last of it into a delicate ring that hovers before her face for a few moments before dissipating.

“One of these days you’re going to have to teach me how to do that,” Thom says, his fingers plunging into the hair at the base of her neck.  He’s handsy when he’s high like this.  She laughs, twists on the pillows and leans into his touch.

“Maybe.”  He tugs her hair gently and shifts closer, lips a hair’s breadth from her skin, waiting as if for her permission.  “A snack might persuade me.”

“A bit cliché,” he says, but he draws back and gets to his feet nevertheless.  The trousers he pulls on hang low on his hips but she barely gets a glance before he is down the stairs.  Even still, the image sticks in her mind and a steady, thrumming pulse beats strong between her thighs. 

Taking another drag on the pipe, she settles back against the cushions.  She is well and truly stoned, now, and she loves the freedom that seeps through her veins, the lazy arousal that throbs deep in her belly. 

It’s a funny habit, this.  Funny the way she smokes to forget, to leave her past in the past, the reason he does it, too.  Funny the way the taste of the smoke brings back the memories all the same.  She wonders if it’s like that for him, as well.  Probably.  Neither of them can afford to forget their pasts, much as they might want to, lest they become those people again.  Maybe that’s the point.

Thom returns faster than she expects with a tray of bread, a knife and an apple.  He sets it on the bed between them.  “May I?”

She nods and offers him the pipe.  He takes it and she sets to work slicing the apple.  She makes quick work of it, her fingers deft as they are.  Between them, the food does not last long and soon she moves to take the last wedge of apple.  Touching a hand to her wrist, Thom stops her, instead lifting the fruit to her mouth himself.  Her teeth pierce the skin easily and her lips close sloppily over the flesh of the apple as well his fingers. 

Even once the apple is gone, he remains, the callused ridges of his fingerprints rough against her tongue. 

She wants him inside of her, she realizes, not just her mouth but all of her.  She wants to consume him, take him within her and keep him there until they both come. 

Kicking the tray off the bed, she slings a leg over his, pressing into his thigh until a wave of sensation shudders up the length of her spine.  The throbbing in her clit is dull, but insistent and she rolls her hips again.  His skin is damp, salty when her tongue laves over it.  Her teeth scrape his Adam’s apple and he groans.  The pressure, the blunt friction is delicious and it is exactly what she needs and, ancestors, she might come from this, she’s going to come if she doesn’t stop, if he doesn’t stop flexing the muscle she’s riding, and her body clenches everywhere, so taut but it is all release and she gasps the smoky air and his scent and then slumps against him, panting, boneless.

As she rolls off of him, her head lolls to one side.  His eyes are narrow, red from the lotus, but his mouth is slack with surprise.  The pipe dangles still from his fingers and she grabs it, taking another hit as she comes down from the unexpected climax.

“You are-“

“Still horny,” she finishes, quirking an eyebrow.  The orgasm has left her needy and slick in her smalls and she pushes up onto her elbow to get a better look at him, pipe clenched between her teeth. 

Shirtless, he is a tangled mess of scars and hair and muscle, leaner than she expected before she saw him like this the first time.  They match, the two of them, scarred bodies and scarred pasts.  The front of his trousers is tented and she kneads the heel of her hand into the bulge.  He groans, eyes falling shut.

“Maker’s balls, so many things I want to do to you right now.”

“Pick one.”

He takes the pipe from her, sets it on the table beside the bed, and then his hands are on her hips, lifting her easily until she straddles his chest.  “Sit up.”

“A please would be nice, Captain,” she says, but she obliges anyway. 

Scooting down the bed, he settles her over his mouth.  “Not a captain.”

“No, you’re not,” she agrees.  His tongue pushes against her, firm and sure, through the sodden fabric and she sighs her approval.  “By the stone, you are good at this, though.”

That earns her a hearty chuckle.  The vibration tickles her clit makes her muscles clamp down around nothing and she realizes how empty she feels.  She needs him inside her, filling her, swelling as they move together. 

“Enough,” she says.  “I want you to fuck me.”

The words are barely spoken and she is on her back amidst the pile of cushions that litter the bed, his fingers tugging her smalls down her legs and then his weight settles on top of her, trousers gone, cock heavy and hard against her thigh.  She is wet, so wet for him and soft and open and, ancestors, he knows it because he pushes into her without even testing her first. 

He pushes into her, pushes until he is fully sheathed and then pushes more, rising over her until the wings of his hips settle against her own and he is surrounding her, encircling her and she is lost beneath him.  She sighs, willing him to move, writhing beneath him and finally, desperately, pushing her hips up to meet his.  Something sparks within her and she cannot help the moan that escapes her at the friction against her clit.  Again she presses and this time he counters. 

It is everything she wants, his pubic bone rubbing gloriously against her clit and him inside her-not deep, but _enough_ \- and his hands on her back and her mouth on the sharpness of his collar bones and her legs around his waist, everything all at once.  When she closes her eyes, her head spins and her breath is shallow and high and his pace is achingly slow.  Between the lotus and her first climax, the need rising within her is sluggish, coiling low in her belly.  They rock together, barely moving for what seems like ages.  A second orgasm creeps up on her, washing over her more gently than the first, but still he grinds against her, fingers pressing into her back as his cock presses into her until the aftershocks become another rolling climax.

 Her head spins and spins and she loses herself in him, her world narrowed to the place where they are joined and she can no longer tell climax from aftershock from the rest.  Vaguely, she is aware of the way he curls his torso around her, drawing her sweaty, tangled hair from her brown and pressing a kiss to her temple, the way he groans, the way he moves faster and the way he finally spills into her, both of them utterly spent.

Finally he rolls off her and she wonders how much time has passed.  Hours, it feels like, though lotus has played tricks on her before.  But no, the candles are dim and stubby, the fire reduced to embers. 

If he had done that, back when he was Blackwall instead of Thom, there wouldn’t have been a doubt in her mind that he was a Grey Warden, infamous stamina and all. 

She tells him as much and he laughs, then draws the curtains around the bed and pulls her to his chest.  


End file.
